by Kelly Rimmer
“I’m sorry,” I say numbly as I pick my way across the mess, back towards the trash can, where the letter rests on the floor. I remember seeing an ornate wooden chest nearby, one I vaguely recall Dad used as a coffee table in the living room for a while, one I’m pretty sure he told me he built himself. It’s buried beneath a stack of drop sheets, so I kick my way toward it and use the side of my foot to clear the sheets from the top, then I sit heavily on it. Noah is fumbling at my tank top, and it occurs to me that he’s probably hungry, so I set him up to nurse and then I draw in a deep breath and read the letter.
Tonight there are four other souls in this house, but I am unreachably far from any of them, even as I’m far too close to guarantee their safety. Patrick said he’d be home by nine tonight, and I clung on to that promise all day.
I’m shaking so hard I can barely continue reading, but I force myself to persist. When I finish, I look down at Noah. I really look at him, maybe for the first time in weeks. His eyes have fluttered closed, and his hand has curled into a fist against my skin. I stare at him until my vision blurs, but the whole while, I feel numb.
But she held me like this. She dreaded my cry, just as I dread his. Maybe she felt numb, too. She certainly seemed to think about running away, just as I have.
Perhaps some people would be upset to know that their mother struggled to care for them, but I’m nothing like upset. More than anyone, I understand that a mother can love a child desperately, and simultaneously find themselves broken by the endless demands of parenting.
I actively seek ways to avoid my son because I just don’t feel I’m up to the task of nurturing him the way he needs and deserves to be nurtured. Not only have I never said that aloud, I’ve also never even let myself think those words explicitly before.
I look back to the letter, and I see my struggle reflected in the beautifully scripted handwriting of a woman who’s been gone for decades. Until five minutes ago, all I had left of her was a handful of precious moments that I replay in my memory when I’m feeling lost.
But for the very first time since Noah’s birth, I don’t feel isolated. I didn’t just discover a letter from the past. I found a voice that expresses what has been caught in my throat for the past five months—emotions and thoughts that were shapeless specters, now have words to define them.
I nurse Noah as I ponder this, and when he’s fed and content, I settle him back into the playpen and move to set this new note next to the original one.
Any shred of comfort I might have gained from Grace’s new note disappears when I move to pin it to the clipboard, and again see the words of the first note. Together, these notes carry a message that simply cannot be ignored.
Dad has always said she died in a car accident, but what if he just couldn’t bear to tell us the truth? Maybe Grace Walsh did walk this same path I’m walking, but even if she did, there’s a real chance it eventually lead to tragedy.
As I tear through the junk looking for more notes, I’m moving as fast as I can, but trying to stay cautious enough to avoid accidentally throwing one out like I almost did this morning. It’s hard work finding the balance between impatience and care. Fortunately, Noah takes a long nap, and then wakes in a particularly content mood. I set him up in a bouncy chair and he has a one-sided conversation with his fist while I work.
Early afternoon I hear the faint trill of the phone as it rings downstairs. I scoop Noah up and take him with me as I rush down to answer it. I’m completely unsurprised to hear my sister’s voice at the other end of the line.
“Beth?”
“Hi, Ruth,” I sigh, settling Noah on my hip and bracing myself for another clumsy interrogation.
“Have you been to see Dad yet?” she asks me instead.
“Dad?” I repeat, then I scowl. “Ruth, you left me off the roster for two weeks, remember?”
“Actually, Beth,” she says pointedly, “you swapped with Alicia for today. We talked about this on Sunday night. Remember?”
“Shit,” I groan. “I’ll go now.”
“Beth—”
I didn’t intend to hang up on her—I just realized too late that she was still talking. I hover, debating whether I should call her back, then decide against it. I scoop up my handbag and Noah’s things, and drive straight from Dad’s house to the nursing home. The facility is in a brand-new, state-of-the-art building, walls painted in a soothing array of blue hues, each room decorated with homey furnishings and indoor plants. Dad’s room opens out to a garden, and I find him seated in an armchair, staring out through the window at the plants. There’s a television on a dresser nearby, and he has it on, a black-and-white movie playing with the sound turned down low.
“Hi there, stranger,” I say, forcing cheerfulness into my tone as I step into his room. Dad glances at me, and his entire demeanor brightens. He pushes himself into a standing position and, forgetting all about the gas line that connects him to the oxygen outlet on the wall, takes a step toward me, already extending his arms to hug me. The cannula drops out of his nose and he catches it awkwardly, then looks back at me, his eyes suddenly swimming in tears.
“Maryanne!” Dad exclaims desperately. He’s confused names before, but never mine, and this is almost more than I can bear.
“Who’s Maryanne?” I croak. Dad blinks at me. “I’m Beth. Your daughter. You know who I am, don’t you?”
“Yes. Beth. That’s what I meant. Beth. Beth Walsh. No, it’s Beth Evans now. That’s what I...what’s the word? I...” Dad gives me a pleading look as he rights the cannula. It’s clear that although he might have just called me by the wrong name, he’s well aware how much that hurt me, and now he’s hurting, too. This would almost be easier if he didn’t know. “I’m please. I’m please, Beth.”
He means sorry. I don’t bother correcting him. There’s no point, and it would only embarrass him more.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I say dully. I know he can’t help it, but that doesn’t lessen the ache. Dad’s finally noticed Noah—and he opens his arms for a cuddle. I pass him the baby, but as I do, I’m pushing Dad gently back down into his chair.
“How are you settling in?” I ask as I take a seat opposite him.
“The plates,” Dad mutters, raising his gaze from Noah’s face to mine and frowning. “And...the juice. I don’t like the juice. The...” He motions toward the tray beside his bed, which contains a plate full of food, and an empty coffee cup. I’m guessing he means coffee when he says juice, because there’s no sign of anything like juice here. The coffee is probably drip, and Dad always preferred espresso, so that makes sense. But as for the plates...
“What’s wrong with the plates?” I ask. He hasn’t touched his food, but the plain white dishware appears entirely unremarkable.
“Not enough salt,” Dad says, then he clucks his tongue. “I need garlic and salt, Beth. A man can’t live off plates like this.”
Ah. So by juice he means coffee, and by plates, Dad means food. I smile gently.
“You’re not supposed to eat salt, Dad. And I have a feeling your nurses will notice if I bring you garlic.”
Dad actually laughs, and a gentle smile eases the stress lines in his face as he looks down at Noah. When he speaks again, the words flow beautifully.
“Thank you for bringing the baby. Everything feels better with a baby in your arms.”
Once upon a time, I might’ve said the same. It didn’t even occur to me how much different it would feel when the baby in my arms was my own.
“Daddy,” I say gently. “I’m cleaning out the attic.”
Dad keeps staring at Noah, but I see his arms contract a little around my son as if he’s holding him just a little closer.
“You found the...” Dad squints, concentrating hard. “What is the word? What is the...you know the thing...”
He adjusts Noah’s position on his lap, shifting the baby o
ver to his left side, and then he raises his right hand in a fist. It takes me a moment to realize that this gesture is the same one he made the day we took him from the house. Now he rotates his fist and I finally realize that he’s miming a key. His agitation that last day makes sense. Maybe he did want to get up there to pack some art supplies to bring to the nursing home.
“No, Dad, I didn’t find the key. Ruth had the boys from your office bust through the door.”
For a minute Dad looks impressed, but then I guess he remembers what was behind the door. His entire expression changes, and he curls forward around Noah as if he’s protecting him. Dad rocks a little, reaching with his right hand to gently touch Noah’s face.
“Shouldn’t have,” he mutters.
“Dad, we had to. But can you tell me about the paintings?” Dad doesn’t react, so I prompt him gently, “The paintings are about the notes, right? And...she wrote the notes? Grace? Mom?”
He purses his lips, then looks up at me, concentrating fiercely. I know he’s searching for words, and I’d do anything to make it easier for him, but all I can do in this case is wait. Seconds pass, and then minutes, and soon his breathing becomes more labored and I cannot stand to watch him suffer like this.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I whisper. “It’s okay. I don’t need to know.”
Dad gives me a helpless look. “I can’t remember what it’s...” Dad clears his throat, then shakes his head. “You know, the word. I can’t remember what the word is. Grace is dead but it was an accident.” He opens his mouth, then licks his lips and makes a grunting sound.
“That’s right, Dad. Mom died in a car accident.”
“No, not...” He gives me a frustrated look, then rubs his forehead. “What’s the word? She’s gone. And you need her now that I’m...sick.” He looks at me expectantly as if this news might shock me. God, why did I insist on visiting him today? I was already feeling off-kilter and this conversation would have been pure hell at the best of times.
“She’s dead, Dad. Can you at least tell me if she wrote the notes in the attic?”
“Grace was beautiful in the place. You know, the place with the roof. I built the place with the roof for her uncle. Her...no. Her father. But she was beautiful in the window, like an angel with her...the paper thing...sitting behind the glass in the window seat.”
“Dad. The notes.”
“Maryanne at the table. In the nightgown. Remember...beautiful with the food and my...” He looks down at his hand, then holds up his forefinger. “With the rock. I need to tell her sorry. I was wrong.”
“Dad. Did Mom write the notes?”
“She...” Dad tilts his head this way and that, concentrating fiercely. “Yes. Letters. She wrote the letters with the scissors. Right?”
“With a pen?” I prompt. Dad looks at me blankly as if he’s completely unfamiliar with the word. And maybe, today he is. I grit my teeth and I blink as fast as I can, but I can’t quite shake off the tears that rise. I turn my eyes toward the ceiling, trying to stop the moisture from spilling over. “Daddy,” I choke. “I’m feeling so overwhelmed at the moment and I don’t know what to do. Everyone is worried about me but I don’t even know how to talk about it.”
Dad shifts Noah higher into his arms, and then leans forward and rests his hand on my forearm. I blink away the tears and look at him. He’s staring at me with visible concern, but also, the gentlest of smiles. Here’s a hint of the Dad I’ve always been able to rely on, and this throwback couldn’t have come at a better time. Even now, when everything else is failing, my dad finds a way to come through for me.
“You’re a good girl,” Dad says, very quietly. Right now, but for the heavier rasp of his breathing, he could almost be well—his gaze is focused on me, and he appears to be completely present. “And what do I always tell you?”
“Everything changes,” I whisper unevenly. Dad nods, satisfied.
“That’s right, Maryanne. Everything changes, so you just hold on for a while and see what happens next.”
I close my eyes again. The tears spill over, and I can’t suppress the sobs when they rise. Dad’s looking at the TV now and he doesn’t seem to notice I’m distressed. Whatever moment we just shared has already passed.
“Can I stay here awhile, Dad?” I ask him through my tears. “We don’t have to talk anymore. I just don’t want to go home yet.”
“Of course,” Dad says, effortlessly shifting Noah, so that the baby rests against his shoulder. “You can always come home when you need me.”
That has always been true, but the miserable reality is, it won’t be for much longer. I’m almost forty years old—but sitting in that hospice room with Dad, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the realities of adult life, and in particular, facing adult life as an orphan. There’s comfort in having a living parent that I’d never appreciated, but soon I’ll be on my own. Married—a sister to three close siblings—and a mother, so not totally alone, but even so, parentless. Just the idea seems terrifying. I’m not ready to lose Dad, not nearly ready to navigate life without his calm presence, certainly nothing like ready to parent my own child, let alone without his support.
Dad sinks into one of the wretched, desperate coughing fits we’ve all grown so used to over these past months. I take Noah and rest him in the stroller, then rub my father’s back. Dad coughs and wheezes, and I sob, and the hours drag past until a nurse comes to help Dad into bed.
“We’ll call you if he needs you,” she tells me kindly, and as I push Noah out toward the car, I can’t help but wonder who I’ll call if I need him.
Grace
January 1, 1958
I went into labor with the twins on a stormy night in early 1955. Tim was only thirteen months old, and despite their horror that we were living in public housing, Mother and Father still hovered at the periphery of our lives. We planned for Tim to go to stay with Mother while I went into the hospital, but the twins came five weeks early, Mother doesn’t like to drive and Father was away on business. When it became apparent that I had to go to the hospital now, Patrick rushed next door to what we always referred to as “the old people’s place.” Mrs. Hills doesn’t sleep much, apparently, and despite it being 5 a.m., was wide awake sipping a cup of tea. She wasn’t exactly delighted to babysit for the strangers next door, but she did agree.
An hour after we arrived at the hospital, Ruth burst into the world, followed a few minutes later by Jeremy. Seven days later we brought the new children home and I began living in the peculiar hell of having three children under the age of two. I don’t remember much of the early months—it’s all a blur of sleep deprivation and laundry and feedings. One day I was cooking dinner and making myself a cup of coffee, and only when the house filled with smoke did I realize that I’d put the roast in the fridge and the milk in the oven. I lived an infinite monotony of days like that, and it was rarer for me to be dry-eyed than it was for me to cry. But who was to say what was normal and what was not under such circumstances? Anyone would be broken by the endless demands. We were struggling financially, always behind on our bills, and the more stressful things were at home, the less Patrick was around.
When the twins were six months old, Mother called and announced that she was coming for a visit. I raced around trying to bring the house into something like order, and managed to pull on a clean dress before she arrived. Mother sat awkwardly on the very edge of our sofa, lip curled in disgust at something. When I asked her why she was there, she announced with some fanfare that she and Father had made a decision.
At one of the worst times of my life, my mother offered me a refuge in her home, with promises of her housekeeper to manage the laundry and the cleaning, and a night nurse for the twins. At first, I saw this as an olive branch...perhaps, a lifeline. She offered me a utopia of assistance and respite, and yet it soon became very clear that in order to take it, I had to betray Patrick, because he wa
s no longer welcome in their home...and nor would I be, as long as I was married to him.
“It’s a sin to divorce,” Mother told me. “But I talked to Father McWilliams. He said perhaps they could annul your marriage, given Patrick has failed to uphold his vow to provide for you.”
As alone as I felt...as broken as I felt... Patrick was still mine, and I was still his. I didn’t see the lout my parents saw—I still believed in the father I knew he could be. I’d see concrete flashes of a responsible, attentive man every now and again on the weekends when he’d play outside with Tim, or he’d arrive home from the bar with a bunch of flowers and a teary, drunken apology for all of the ways he was letting me down.
“He can do better,” I told my mother. “He can be better.”
“You’ve been married for two years now, Grace,” Mother said stiffly. “You’re still...” She looked around the room slowly, then gave me a helpless look. “Darling, you’re still living on the breadline, even with all of the help we’ve given you. Besides, did you really expect us to support you forever?”
I blinked at her, bewildered.
“What are you talking about? I’ve only borrowed money off you a handful of times, only when we were desperate.”
Frustration twisted my mother’s features.
“I know, darling, but surely you know that Patrick asks for money, too.” She paused, then pursed her lips. “He calls constantly, Grace. Every month, at least.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but I could see from the tension in her gaze that she was telling the truth. My shoulders slumped. I was well aware that we were struggling, but Patrick handled the finances. Until that day, I had no idea how bad things really were.
I’d been prepared to sacrifice my relationship with my parents for Patrick in those early days, when my eyes were alight with stars, and I believed love would conquer all. Things were different by the time the twins came along. I was sorely tempted to flee to the refuge of my parents’ home. In the end, I stayed with Patrick because I had survived those difficult years only by maintaining some desperate hold on something like hope. Hope that Patrick could turn things around. Hope that we could be the family he and I had dreamed of. Hope that I could do better, on my own—that I would find some hidden reserve of strength and rise at last above my circumstances.
